le coeur d'un vampire
by quicklime
Summary: Another take on the SeverusHermione Romance. War is at her doorstep and her only path seems to lie with a dark man 10 years dead. Newly revised and UPDATED! FINALLY!
1. Chapter I

Le Coeur d'un Vampire  
  
Note: A newly revised (and soon to be continued) version of Le Coeur d'un Vampire. I haven't touched this story is a *very* long time and I apologize. As always, none of the characters belong to the writer, and no profit is being made from this story.  
  
Prologue   
  
The smell hit her: incense, dust and blood. It was familiar enough, for Hermione's work with the Ministry's Agency of Internal Affairs--cleanup crew, these days--kept her in constant surveillance of Knockturn Alley. Still, frequent it as she might, Borgin & Burkes never failed to turn her stomach.   
  
Ironic, wasn't it? Years ago, the prospect of books, any books, would have been a matter of delight. Too many scars now for this little trip, one of many, to be the subject of anything but dread.   
  
"The book you requested, Miss Granger," the proprietor said stiffly. She nodded. And whipped around--her instincts had been refined in the past few years--and she found herself looking up into familiar blue eyes. "Well, well, well, Miss Granger," Malfoy purred. Malfoy the younger, to be specific, although it had been getting increasingly difficult to tell them apart, even when Draco was still at school. Still pale, still icy-blond...No one knew if Lucius had been killed, but he hadn't been seen for a very long time. "Fancy seeing you here," she muttered vaguely. Malfoy had never been convicted. On the other hand, neither had his father.  
  
"You don't sound particularly pleased," he said, trying to sound hurt.  
  
"Should I be?" she asked, calmly. This is just what I need! she screamed inside her head, well aware of how childish she seemed and of how little talent she had for such Slytherin word games. Where the hell was Borgin?! (Or Burkes, for that matter; she never knew which was which.) Both men had a huge talent for vanishing just when you needed them, be it with information on a book or getting rid of a dangerous black wizard.  
  
"One would think," he purred (and was he getting closer to her?) "That a chance meeting with an old school chum would be rather pleasant. There are so many things you and I could discuss..." There was a threat in that somewhere, but she couldn't quite determine what it was.  
  
"Knockturn Alley is hardly the place for reunions."   
  
Hermione, against her better judgement, was getting frightened. She hadn't seen Malfoy since school, and he'd been pretty intimidating then. A foot of height and seven years of practice improved the effect a great deal. Besides being tall, Malfoy the younger was almost impossibly handsome. The gray eyes were framed by light blond eyelashes, giving him almost the appearance of a bleach-blond Ken doll.   
  
"True enough, Miss Granger. Or perhaps I can call you Hermione? We must be past all that formality by now, don't you think? One ought to keep one's guard up a little better in Knockturn, by the way. Particularly when they aren't exactly welcome. You never know what sort are hanging about." Malfoy edged a little closer to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Friendly. Kind. Hermione's skin crawled. "Or what their intentions are...Perhaps I ought to escort you somewhere more pleasant..."  
  
Somewhere in all her ministry training there should be some sort of procedure for something like this. She wracked her brain, found nothing of use.   
  
"Go away, Draco," said someone in a very bored--and very commanding--voice. It wasn't the proprietor; he would never have that authority, not even when telling people that drinks were not allowed in his store. Hermione and Malfoy both turned. "Go have a drink."  
  
Malfoy took a half step backward. Hermione watched him with interest. He gave her a distracted glare, shook his head, blinked, and left, wearing a very uncharacteristic blank look.  
  
Borgin & Burkes sold mostly books, at least in the front room, but there was a ring of chairs and couches around a small stove fire. The only occupant of the room was lounged across a couch, one hand flung across its back and the other delicately holding a wineglass.  
  
The place was always dim, and the light of the fire fell in a rather intimidating grid pattern, but the man looked oddly familiar. She took a few steps closer, trying to balance dignity and courtesy, and fighting a strong urge to pay for her books and be Somewhere Else Right Now, which seemed to be the sentiment of the occupant of the couch as well.   
  
"No. Go away, Granger."   
  
Hermione was suddenly swept up in an even stronger desire to leave. Rather like the Imperius curse, except she was almost sure she could fight it. He gave a small exasperated sigh when she half turned but didn't move.   
  
"Hell and earth, go away, girl. You have your book. Nice book, I'm sure, and you're very eager to read it. Go home now." There was a hint of anger, but, more than that, of overwhelming weariness. Something about the voice was familiar. (Unpleasant, but familiar nonetheless.)   
  
Feeling as if her brain was packed in cotton, and her feet determined to try to turn around with every step, she walked awkwardly around the front of the couch. The long fingers curled delicately around the stem of the wine glass, and the voice, and the sneer, and the face on which the sneer rested so well all belonged (and could only belong) to one Professor Severus Snape.   
  
But..."...You're dead..." Hermione said, feeling like an idiot before the words were out of her mouth.  
  
"And I'm well aware of it," he said, more testy than angry. "Go away." 


	2. Chapter II

2  
  
He looked like Snape, and he didn't, although she didn't know why she was so sure of that; she hadn't seen the man for more than ten years.   
  
Ten years; halfway through her fifth year at Hogwarts--she had been made a Prefect, Harry had been appointed captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team--and Snape had disappeared. Harry and Hermione and Ron, who knew Snape's double life, assumed that he had fallen in the line of duty, and mourned him with respect, if not fondness. The headmaster's face had been dark and grave for a long time; it was an expression they had never seen before, and did not truly see again until the second war, just a year after Hermione had graduated.  
  
And now, three years after the war had been won, Hermione was on duty keeping the well-won, slightly uneasy peace, and she ran into a dead man.  
  
He looked paler, if possible, and somehow more elegant. Handsome. Dangerous. She wouldn't have used "handsome" or "elegant" to describe Snape when she was still at school. Perhaps that had more to do with her own perception, rather than him actually changing...and "dangerous" was spot on...but he didn't look any older.He arched an eyebrow. His position, stretched gracefully across the sofa, was almost catlike in it's relaxation. "Relaxed" had never exactly applied to him either. He looked bored, almost childishly, and swirled the wine glass like one would do brandy. Hermione's attention flicked to it. The wine looked rather too bright...and rather too opaque.  
  
Cogs turned, despite the clouds-and-cotton in her brain.   
  
She flinched. "You're a vampire, aren't you?"   
  
No shock could quite overcome Hermione's reserve; in her own ears, the tremble in her voice made her sound ten years old, but the voice that came out was that of a scholar.  
  
"Ten points, Granger," he said sourly.  
  
"10 years..."  
  
"Such a bright girl."  
  
"...how?"  
  
"The usual way, of course." The voice was as darkly sarcastic as ever, although his voice was more tired and bitterer than it once had been.  
  
"I'm sorry..."  
  
"Oh, well, that changes everything, doesn't it? Alert the presses, should we? The world is alright because Hermione Granger is sorry."  
  
She flinched again. Her fear was probably perfectly visible--deadpan was something she'd never be good at--not that it mattered, he could probably read her mind anyway... "Everyone thought you were dead."  
  
"I am."  
  
Hermione was still standing. Aside from the tiny movements of his hand, he hadn't moved. She bit her lip; localized pain was always a good solution for tears. Composure was never something she'd mastered, as she was well aware. He turned slightly, and studied her face.  
  
"You're going to start crying," he said dispassionately. "Not just for me, of course. Everything. Its so overwhelming, and you've been bottling it up for years because you have to be strong and its all...just...too...much. Am I right?" By the end of his tirade, his soft voice was more cruelly mocking than even Malfoy's had ever been.  
  
"Oh God, shut up!" Hermione snapped, horrified and angry.   
  
"I was a bastard when I was alive, too."  
  
Comprehension dawned. "You're trying to get me to back off."  
  
His childish frown relieved a great deal of the intimidation. "Clever little witch. Perfect, clever little busybody of a witch. Go away."  
  
"I haven't even considered killing you," she offered. Clouds-and-cotton was fading away, which wasn't really all that great, all things considered. *Granger, you idiot, you're standing her talking to a vampire.*  
  
"Familiarity breeds carelessness. I'm sure even our heroic Potter would hesitate before decapitating me."  
  
"You know, If Harry wasn't an actual hero at a school, he certainly is one now," she said stiffly. She and Harry still kept in touch, but with more tradition than enthusiasm. He and Ron were family people, warm and outgoing...and heroes. "You can stop hating him for that, at least."  
  
"I don't hate Potter, I--No! I am not going to explain myself. Certainly not to a sweet, clever little witch twenty-five years younger than I am."  
  
"About ten, I'd say," she said without thinking. *That was tactful.* Her weak composure managed to stop her from placing a hand over her mouth.  
  
He looked like he'd been slapped. His dark eyes flamed, and he stood, carefully placing the glass of opaque-red-stuff-that-probably-wasn't-wine on a side table.  
  
Snape towered over her, just as he had at school, his robes flaring out with a certain sinister drama. Hermione stepped backward; a certain point on her spine was screaming at her to Run Fast Now!   
  
Fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and also informed her that fighting was not a very good idea. He was at least a foot taller than she was, but the nerves seemed to be getting their signals from the expression on his face.  
  
He bared his teeth. The upper canines flashed brightly against his lower lip. They curved inward, like a sharks; built for piercing and holding on. The bottom incisors were sharp as well, although not much longer than most teeth. He growled, softly, like a wolf or a bear or some other creature that could kill a clever little busybody witch in a heartbeat.  
  
And she stood her ground.  
  
He sneered. It was better than snarling, but it still revealed the fangs. "Of course. Gryffindors are famed for their bravery, if not their intelligence."  
  
"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer. Although, speaking of answers..."  
  
He looked ready to strike her. "No. Go away. I don't need you, and I certainly don't want you leaning on me. People must deal with their own pain."  
  
"That's not true."  
  
"Go away...please go away. Lean on Potter. Weasley. Any of them. Just leave me to my fate." For the first time, there was weakness in his voice. She had to tune her perception up a great deal, but he sounded almost plaintive.  
  
"I don't believe in fate. And I haven't leaned on Potter for a long time."  
  
A faint smile, almost without cruelty. "No? Good girl."  
  
"No."  
  
It might have been a laugh. It was just a tiny huff of breath, but as breathing was unnecessary, it might have been a laugh. "Always knew you should have been in Ravenclaw."  
  
"Not Slytherin?"  
  
It was definitely a laugh. "They would have eaten you alive on your first day."  
  
"Right. I tend to forget about the Mudblood thing, what with Draco not reminding me about it every day."  
  
He gave a theatrical sigh, the mention of Draco stirring something in him that she couldn't decipher. "You aren't going away, are you?"  
  
"Yell at me some more. Old times' sake." Hermione smiled cheerfully.   
  
*Shock,* whispered a voice in her head.   
  
*Fine,* she answered. *Better than terror.*  
  
He didn't return the smile, but he sat down again. Hermione perched on the edge of a chair.  
  
"Staying for a while, Miss Granger? Can I get you some tea?"   
  
Hermione nearly jumped out of her seat. A bookshelf blocked the view of the front desk, and she had forgotten that Borgin was there.Snape gave another little breath of laughter, and not kindly.   
  
"Don't mind Mr. Borgin. He can't hear us. Doesn't know we're here. Deaf and blind, poor fellow."  
  
"And senile," Borgin added, who looked like he was about forty. "Won't remember anyone's been in my shop not ten minutes after they leave. Memory's failing me."  
  
"Poor man," Snape agreed with mock sympathy. "But sometimes that hearing of yours improves dramatically ex post facto, as it were, when the medicinal properties of somebody else's gold kick in."  
  
The proprietor of the sordid magic shop shrugged. "Its been known to happen."Snape rose and stretched his shoulders. "I suppose that if I leave, you're likely to follow me," he told Hermione.  
  
"Most likely."  
  
He drained the wineglass and stood. There was a small clink as he tossed a few galleons on the table and he swept out.  
  
Hermione hissed with irritation; it was past midnight and the street was dark, and Snape could apparently move deceptively fast.  
  
The voice of reason in her head told her, quite firmly, that she was being an idiot. That she was in shock, and in a couple of hours, she would realize that she had been talking calmly with a vampire, not to speak of trying to find him in a dark alley in the middle of the night full of people who were, despite all appearances, blind and deaf unless bribed not to be.  
  
*Go home, Granger. Pretend this hasn't happened. Go back to work tomorrow and do some good in the world and leave this one little mission to somebody with more nerves and fewer arteries and just let it go...  
  
...he's a monster, now, after all...you know some fo the things they say about vampires...and it's dark, and you're shaking and you're still in Knockturn and WHY ARE YOU STILL WALKING? YOU REALIZE YOU NOW HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHERE YOU ARE?!*  
  
Lost in the most unsavory neighborhood in England, Hermione suddenly wanted to find Snape before he found her. Vampires, she recalled, could move very fast. Snape, as she expected, had successfully ducked her. And further wandering around in Knockturn alley, as might be expected, did not turn out to be a particularly good idea.   
  
"Not nearly as bright as everyone pegged you for, are you?" Draco, from behind her, said smoothly. Hermione started. People, in her experience, did not sit on outdoor terraces at night. The bar he was hunched outside of was fairly quiet, but in a rather sinister sense. As if it was quite full of very quiet people. A few torches by the door did little more than add texture to the shadows. Draco lounged in an elegant wrought iron chair, sipping a glass of wine; white wine.Hermione, who had had her fill with Slytherins that evening before any run-ins in Knockturn, tried to ignore him and simply walk away.   
  
She didn't get half a step before he grabbed her wrist.  
  
She tugged, and his hold tightened, painfully. The expression on his face remained one of calm disdain.  
  
"Open act of aggression against a Ministry offical, Malfoy? And with you still under investigation, too."  
  
"Keep talking, Mudblood. It won't do you any good." He was closer, now, and she was feeling particularly small and short and female tonight.   
  
"Come off it, Malfoy. This bigger and stronger bully thing didn't work at school, and it's obviously not working now."  
  
"Ah, but you're all alone now, aren't you? No Potter or Weasley to protect you."  
  
"It not exactly like we had you outnumbered, is it? You had your charmingly inbred bodyguards...whatever happened to them? And Parkinson, the dear little dog? Did that ever work out?"   
  
*Taunt the incredibly dangerous guy with the upper hand. Good idea.*  
  
Fury tightened his face, and he dug his nails into her hand. Hermione was surprised at how painful it was, and she made another attempt to jerk away. Of all the times for her wit to kick in...  
  
and Malfoy reached for his wand. Her own was tucked inside her sleeve. Specifically, the sleeve of the arm that he had hold of.  
  
And Snape, stepping out of the shadows as if he was one of them, laid a hand on Malfoy's shoulder, lightly, but a little closer to the neck than the normal comforting pat. "Let go," he ordered.  
  
Malfoy's face twisted in confusion, and then rebellion, and he stood and backed away, dragging Hermione with him.  
  
In a blur of movement, Snape was behind both of them, digging his fingers carefully into nerves in Draco's arm; Draco hissed with pain. As his grip loosened, Hermione wrenched her wrist away. Draco did not move. He wore the same dazed expression he had before.  
  
"Go home, boy," Snape commanded, and Draco stumbled away almost drunkenly, although Hermione would have bet that the glass of wine was the only drink he'd had.   
  
She rubbed the wrist, which was already starting to look delightfully bruised.  
  
"You shouldn't take him so lightly," Snape said coldly.   
  
"I didn't mean to run into him! Anyway, he's an idiot. He may be strong, but the instances when that is a real problem for me are few and far between."  
  
"He may be an idiot, but he's dangerous all the same. Isn't it your responsibility to keep him under observation? You aren't doing a very good job."  
  
"If we knew what was going on, it might help..."She broke off. Snape wasn't listening. Or, rather, he seemed to be listening very intently to something else.   
  
"Someone's following us. Draco probably doubled around." He groaned, softly. "I'm never going to get rid of you."  
  
His eyes flashed here and there in the dark. He didn't exactly look nervous. He looked predatory. Although they had many of the same symptoms; eyes flashing here and there, searching the dark corners, weight shifting slightly to be able to move quickly, there was an important difference. Predatory had fangs.   
  
Snape's hands curled into fists, and his face twisted. She knew the look. At school, it had been the face of a man saving Harry Potter's life. She assumed--hoped, rather--that it held a similar meaning for her.   
  
"I'll get you out of here," he said at last, very sourly, and he took a firm hold of her wrist in a very strong and disturbingly cold hand and started walking, doubling between buildings and down obscure little allies. She could not see. He walked very fast. He always had, nothing superhuman about that. His legs were too long for him to do anything but outdistance her, and Hermione was forced to jog. It was either keep up or be dragged, and since by the second or third turn she had no idea where they were, the latter was not an option.  
  
All her life she had been short of both dignity and stamina. Both of them were now being pushed to the test. She had always known about the dignity, but stamina had not, until now, been much of a concern. But she was so out of breath that all she could manage was a halfhearted gasp, relying on vampire hearing to stop him.  
  
It did, luckily. Snape turned, and her knees buckled. Apparently her internal shock absorbers had worn rather thin that evening, and brilliantly glowing eyes in pitch darkness were more than she could handle. He didn't let go of her wrist.Hermione, in that rather awkward position, couldn't quite kneel, as her legs had intended. Instead, she dangled, trying and failing to find her balance again as Vampire Snape's iron grip slowly pulled her shoulder out of its socket.  
  
"Yes?" he said calmly.*Calm-blue-ocean-calm-blue-ocean-calm-blue-ocean* Hermione chanted in her head.  
  
It was her mother's mantra in times of great stress.*Calm-blue-ocean, calm-blue-ocean.*   
  
She took a deep breath. "I was going to ask you to slow down. But for now, I'd settle for you letting go of my arm, or at least holding on to the other wrist." She tried to inject as much confidence into her banter as she could, but evidently he could hear her rasping breathing.  
  
He let go of the wrist, and he bent down and scooped her up.  
  
It was a terrifyingly intimate situation.  
  
"Best not to look at my face again," was all he said. "If the eyes gave you such a start."  
  
Hermione nodded and settled against him. She was shaken enough, without adding the catlike glowing eyes into the equation. He wasn't exactly cold; the night wasn't cold, and his body was almost exactly the same temperature as the air. But his arms and chest felt like they were made of stone, and she was aware that he had to be careful with her, and that he wasn't used to it, like a child with his first pet mouse. She got the impression that neither of them was exactly comfortable.  
  
"You can put me down," she said firmly.  
  
"Quite likely, but I'm not going to. Your breathing is unhealthy and I can inform you that you're quite pale, if you are unable to tell. I recognize the irony. If you go any further into shock, it may do actual damage. And I can see, and you can't, which makes this quite as practical as dragging you."  
  
She tried to concentrate on "calm-blue-ocean" and breathing evenly, but it only made her more aware that she was being carried somewhere in the middle of the night by someone who didn't breathe.   
  
*Oh, and it's a weekend. I won't be missed till Monday.* 


	3. Chapter III

3  
  
The sudden light made Hermione whimper as it hit her dilated eyes. It was a muggle streetlight, which made sense, because they were, in fact, on a muggle street.   
  
Snape did not put her down until he reached the doorway of a small, dilapidated building with boarded up windows, and even then, he shifted her only enough to place one hand against the peeling wood and cheap paint. The door swung open, and he picked her up again.  
  
It was London, as far as she could tell, and a nasty neighborhood. There were a few sirens in the background. That was as much as she could gather before Snape kicked the door open and walked in.  
  
It was a lot bigger on the inside than the outside. The windows, covered roughly with planks from the outside, showed the street, although they were all hung with opaque black curtains and one of them showed the night sky. After roughly fifteen years in the wizard world, things like that didn't surprise her too much. But the clean, elegant, almost fashionable apartment seemed as out of place housed in the neighborhood as it did housing the tall man whose home, apparently, it was.  
  
He put her down without a great deal of gentleness on a red leather couch and she looked around. It was filled with the kind of antique furniture owned by the sort of people who never buy antiques, only inherit them. The walls were lined with books, and so were a few of the smaller tables and a couple empty corners.  
  
Aside from the books, it could have been a guest room. Aside from the small globes of glowing light in the ceiling, it could have been a muggle home.  
  
Hermione managed to slow her breathing by method of staring everywhere except the person to whom the place presumably belonged. Bookshelves. End tables. A red leather armchair to match the comfortable couch she was sitting on. Her own arms, one of which was rather spectacularly bruised, and bleeding a little bit where Draco had dug his nails in. Well, no, that wasn't exactly helping her to calm down.   
  
*Furniture. Nice furniture.*  
  
At last, she looked back to her host, who was leaning against a wall with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. She noticed that he wasn't wearing wizards robes, but a long black trenchcoat and black trousers underneath.  
  
"My house," he said simply. "Do you want something?"  
  
"And I'm here because...?" She trailed off weakly.  
  
"Didn't know where yours was."  
  
"You could have asked me?"  
  
"Draco was tailing us, remember? Probably a bad idea to give me directions, don't you think?"  
  
*Good to see that even after those awkward teen years he's still perfectly skilled at making me feel stupid,* Hermione thought dully. Although he did have a point. The idea of Draco knowing where her home was was highly distasteful.  
  
"Yes...Did you create this place?" she asked.  
  
"No. It's simply a convenient location. Muggle London, absolutely unfindable."  
  
"All the luxuries of home, I suppose."  
  
He sneered. "I can simply hope you will be unable to find it again. This area is dangerous enough that I don't think you would have a chance to come for a third visit."  
  
"I can take care of myself," said Hermione, who had suddenly thought of the 'kiss on the third date' rule and was trying, violently, to banish it from her mind.  
  
"Yes, you proved that tonight remarkably well." He straightened up. "You've been relying on backup too long. You don't know how to handle yourself. And, I will remind you, you underestimated Draco rather badly."  
  
"We have a team keeping tabs on him."  
  
"How long's it been since you saw them, then?"  
  
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, then saw that he was serious. Her forehead, on its own volition, sunk into her hands and she moaned. "He would have killed me."  
  
"Certainly. Or, well, eventually."  
  
She felt sick. She looked up. "You saved my life."  
  
"Deal with it.""The Ministry...they're..."  
  
"Useless?" he filled in for her. "I could have told you that twenty years ago. The fact that Sirius Black, bastard though he may have been, was found innocent seventeen years too late. The fact that Lucius Malfoy could buy his way out of anything and was never actually convicted. Nothing has changed except a disgraceful amount of complacency where there was one useless terror."  
  
She sighed. "I suppose Lucius is still behind all this."  
  
He looked at her blankly. "No. Lucius is dead."  
  
"No one proved that!"  
  
"Quite dead."  
  
"Vanished, yes, we all know that, but that makes it all so much worse if he's operating behind the scenes..."  
  
"Dead as dead can be, Miss Granger."  
  
Something was starting to sink in. "How can you be sure?"  
  
He gave her a look that asked her if she wanted him to state the obvious. "I am quite justified in my knowledge. More so than anyone else, I believe."  
  
Hermione blanched. "Ugh."  
  
"After all that fuss about pure blood, it seemed appropriate. Thought I might as well find out." He snickered.  
  
"Good God!" she exclaimed reproachfully.  
  
"I cannot help what I am, Miss Granger," he said carefully, trying, she thought, not to look too amused. "Nor, at the time, did I want to...Do you want something?"  
  
Hermione consulted her watch. It was 4 am. "Do you have any food?"  
  
He gave another cruel little laugh. "I have water, and I have alcohol."  
  
She pounced gratefully on the latter. "Alcohol," she said firmly, "would be just fine."  
  
Some time later, Hermione's fear of Snape-the-vampire was giving way to an uneasy amity, and quite a lot of liquor.  
  
He had returned from a small journey into the next room with an armful of bottles; red wine, brandy, vodka and whiskey and a couple of glasses. Serious connoisseurs probably wouldn't use the same glass for peach schnapps and Southern Comfort, but Hermione was more interested in oblivion than experience.  
  
At some point, she vaguely remembered Snape taking the glass from her tight clutches and gathering the much-lightened bottles, muttering something about alcohol poisoning.  
  
Even more vaguely, she remembered being bundled onto the leather couch again, somewhat more carefully than the first time, and the lights dimming slowly into complete darkness.  
  
The silence which, judging by this neighborhood should have been disturbed by sirens and screams and gunshots and, at the very least, braking glass, was interrupted only by the soft rustle of pages that was Snape reading Plato in complete darkness, and Hermione's breathing.  
  
She wouldn't have been able to sleep, after the evening's adventure, but Hermione was unused to alcohol and Snape had been quite accurate in his dosing. She slept. Through the last shreds of the night and through the morning into the early afternoon, and if she had nightmares, at least she didn't remember them.   
  
She slept. 


	4. Chapter IV

4  
  
Hermione had fallen asleep over her papers sometime after 2:00 am but before 5:00 Tuesday morning. She woke to creases on her cheek and documents scattered haphazardly over her desk.  
  
The team that had been monitoring Draco was dead.  
  
Cornelius Fudge was missing in action.  
  
The ministry--and the uneasy peace they had been nursing--had been shattered.  
  
All these things would have been the case even had it not been for her odd dual encounter in Knockturn alley, but the heads up the ministry received about them would have come days, if not weeks, later.  
  
She had been trying to sort things out; so many details that had been handled by so many different employees, in different offices. Was it any wonder than something could slip through the cracks? Perhaps it was a wonder that so many things -hadn't.-  
  
Now Draco was lost. Hermione bit through her lip and tasted blood, hoping desperately that he was the only one.No such luck. There were 56 names on suspicion. 49 case files. That meant that seven people who the ministry by all rights should have been tailing day or night were wandering around doing God-knows-what, God-knows-where. *To God-knows-who,* added her subconcious.   
  
Great.   
  
Hermione sent her new information to every office, but it was five o'clock in the morning, and unlikely to be received. She made a quick list of the most important, most efficient Ministry workers and Colette sent owls to rap on windows.  
  
The lights were still on; no one in the office had gone home. She could almost taste the panic.  
  
Don't cry, Granger, don't cry, don't cry!  
  
Colette was crying, just outside Hermione's office. Hermione steeled herself. By the sound of it, the French girl was hyperventilating, too.  
  
Hermione held Colette closely, murmured soothing noises, and told her to get off home. Colette wiped her face with a sleeve, smoothed her blonde hair and tried valiantly to look resolved. No, she said firmly. She wouldn't go home. Not if there was any chance that she could help.  
  
Perhaps Fudge had simply taken a long weekend. He did that not infrequently.  
  
At 10:30, when he still hadn't come in, and no owls were responded to, a small attaché was sent to his flat.  
  
He wasn't there, and the place was a shambles. Either someone had robbed it, or someone had packed in an awfully big hurry.  
  
At 3:00 pm, Hermione was still sending owls out, from the secretary's desk. Colette was sleeping in her office.Someone had given her a cup of coffee that morning, and that was her nutrition for the day, and for several days to come.  
  
Had it been only the night before that she'd been sleeping on a dead man's couch?   
  
She still had bruises on her wrist. But what better way to have it banished from her mind than a sudden expose on Ministry ineptness and for the Minister of Magic to go missing.  
  
She had started screaming for the first time in her life. Not out of panic, of course; "Murphy! Have we got the files on Avery?! ROWAN! Has anybody seen her? Why hasn't the team checked in?" Her voice was a little husky, unused to being quite so loud, but it did the trick.  
  
Hermione wasn't exactly conscious of taking over, only vaguely aware that nobody else was doing it.  
  
By 5:00, the aurors were checking in, getting new, slapdash assignments (usually their codes were dozens of pages long to ensure that they didn't toe any laws. Now, they were lines like "Don't let Rosier out of your sight" in Colette's hasty scrawl.)  
  
Locating spells failed completely to find the Minister. Or Draco Malfoy, for that matter.  
  
"Ma'am," said somebody timidly. "What about Lucius?"  
  
Hermione shuffled a few papers.   
  
"Don't worry about Lucius," she said absently."But he's listed!" he protested. "And it's in all the notes for a decade, that he's a danger."  
  
No, he's dead, she wanted to say, but bit back the words. Why? Because he was drained of all blood by our old potion's teacher, remember him?  
  
"Think about it. Draco simply wouldn't be in charge if Lucius was still in power," she said, trying to sound authoritative. *Please let the overstressed and inexperienced young Auror believe that.* The overstressed and inexperienced young Auror nodded and got on with whatever he was   
  
doing.  
  
Colette woke after a scant few hours and got back to work.  
  
The office was slightly quieter after so many people went out into the field.  
  
Hermione was pale and her eyes were ringed with shadow. Her chapped lips were constantly bloodied.  
  
There was a constant shuffling of parchment on her desk--Colette's desk rather; although her friend was awake, Hermione remained at the more accessible spot. She did not immediately notice the letter.  
  
It bore no name and no address, but she recognized the handwriting. She had been used to seeing it in red ink on her essays.  
  
So the ministry's incompetence is finally brought to light?  
  
Rosier is dead, killed by his own allies.  
  
Brace is living in France and is no threat.  
  
Davenport is still a danger. Try Knockturn. Tell your people to take care. There are tracking spells in wide use, but they are simple and easily blocked.  
  
There are no meetings in person, but that does not mean no contact takes place. As always, the younger generation have grown up in the shadows they were born into, with a few exceptions. I assume you will be familiar with many of the names. Contact Dumbledore if you have not already. You've stumbled into the breeding of a new war. Cut it off at the pass, if you can, Miss Granger.  
  
And that was all; little information, but it was precious enough.  
  
War.  
  
Again.  
  
When did it become her job to choreograph all of this? Why was this on her shoulders? (Said shoulders shuddered a little.)  
  
War. 


	5. Chapter V

5.  
  
72 hours without sleep and still counting.  
  
The human body can only go so long without rest. Aurors, as a general rule, are well aware of physical limitations, and had been acutely aware that Hermione Granger's growing dependence on stimulants was quite dangerous. There was a brief, hurried conference and Colette, her pretty French face as perfect a mask as any actor's, slipped into Miss Granger's office, removed the empty coffee mug, filled it with decaf and tapped in two vials of white powder.  
  
Hermione drained it and promptly fell asleep for a promised fifteen hours. Someone must have carried her home, but she had no idea who. She woke up in the middle of the night, panicky, disoriented, and alone. She had barely had time to assert that she was alone when she realized she wasn't. She gave a strangled shriek and tried to rise and fell, tangled in tightly tucked bedsheets onto unsteady knees. Her mind was still foggy from whatever well-meaning drug they'd slipped her and all she could recognize was fear and shadows.  
  
He flicked on the light; Severus Snape, illuminated by the rather unkind electric overhead lamp of her bedroom, watching her and looking somewhat worried. (Worried on him, however, would have been deadpan, or possibly just dead, on anyone else. He was even more inscrutable as a vampire than he'd been as a Potions Master.)   
  
Her first thought was of how stupid she was to be afraid. Her second was that he was a vampire, after all, and shouldn't she be afraid? And her third was that she couldn't stand and was still tangled in bedding, with that sticky mouthed sweaty feeling that comes of going to sleep in your clothes.  
  
He held out a hand and she hesitated but took it; his skin was very dry and rather pleasantly cool. Together they untangled sheets and duvet, and finally Hermione was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning against one of the posts.  
  
Her face was gray and the rings around her eyes were grayer still, and the eyes themselves were pink. He could hear the slight wheezing as she breathed. Hell, he could hear the heartbeat, fast with panic and just a little too uneven. And it was as a Potions Master not a vampire that he noted the dizziness and discombobluation associated with sleeping potions in high concentration.  
  
"You're running yourself ragged," he noted mildly. "I gather your coworkers were forced to drug you?"  
  
"Do you know what's going on?" she screeched, too loud and too high. "Fudge is missing, there's Death Eaters running all over the place, nearly six of our teams are missing--that's 40 Ministry workers! Malfoy--who's most likely the center of all this, still at large! And you say I'm running myself ragged?"  
  
"Be quiet. You're going to make yourself ill," he snapped. "More so than you already are. Looked in the mirror, would you? You're as pale as I am, and at least I have an excuse."  
  
Hermione started laughing.   
  
Snape was taken aback. At school, he'd never seen her do anything more than chuckle appreciatively. Now, her chest was heaving with gales of laughter, tears streaming down her face, drawing breath very unevenly and the heartbeat quickening.   
  
Ah. Hysteria. Rather understandable under the circumstances. Intolerable, though, and probably not particularly healthy.  
  
She bent double, and now he was uncertain whether she was laughing or crying; her body was still heaving in great, seizure-like gasps and there were tears streaming down her cheeks to spot the sheets.  
  
Severus Snape was perfectly well aware of the traditional methods or comforting crying women: generally you held them kindly and rocked them back and forth and murmured soothing words until they came to their senses.  
  
He didn't really have the patience.  
  
Hermione didn't see the slap coming, but she certainly felt it. Hard enough to unbalance her, to send her reeling backwards and knock her head on the other bedpost, to make her gasp and bruise.  
  
He had likely been holding back, or she would have a concussion. Nevertheless, it was hard, and once she'd recovered herself, she stared angrily into his pale, guiltless face.  
  
"I rather suggest you don't force me to do that again, Miss Granger," he said.  
  
Hermione glared at him. He looked completely unperturbed. Anger managed to oust most other emotions, which was, of course, his motive and realizing this did nothing to improve her state. Well, what were women supposed to do when they were slapped? Parvati and Lavender had watched enough soap operas for her to pick up a bit of canon. There was no handy bottles of champagne to toss in his face, so she settled for hitting him back. She struck, although not as hard as she could have. If she had truly meant to hurt him she would have turned the nails inward, a very successful tactic. No, slaps were more emotional than intended to do actual damage.  
  
Half of her expected him to move in a blur, catching her hand and holding her immobile. But he didn't. He simply took the blow and he didn't look as if it had hurt him. At all. It brought to mind images of sci-fi movies of her youth, of aliens and robots so strong they didn't even need to bother defending themselves.  
  
She sat for a moment in silence, trying to force her muscles to relax, her breathing to slow. What had happened to spitting, screaming, furious Snape? The cold, sneering sarcasm was still there, but the pettiness was gone and so was the temper. Calm, composed, and oh so casually cruel--even if Vampire-Snape had still been human, he would have been frightening. But what made it worse was a touch of humanity that she didn't remember Non-Vampire-Snape possessing.  
  
"Alright," she said finally--Snape was leaning casually against the wall, and looked prepared to watch her in silence all night. "Well-rested or not, we're in a lot of trouble."  
  
Composure faltered, and the pale face was etched with worry, making him look older. "Yes...I had no idea the roots of this went so deep...I've been warning the Headmaster for some time now--he's one of the few people who know I'm still...around...but I could only track individuals. They've recruited new members, undoubtedly."  
  
She didn't want to say it. She didn't want to have thought of it. But it had been thought, and it had to be said. "So Voldemort is still alive...?"  
  
He sneered. "Your faith in Potter--successful Quidditch player, I've heard, how charming--is really quite deep-rooted, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes," she whispered, suddenly feeling stupid.  
  
Sneers were really quite disturbing when they revealed fangs. "Oh how I haven't missed that Gryffindor capacity for drama. Yes, he's around. Weakened, to be sure, but so was Stalin, and he lasted for quite a while."  
  
"Oh." Numb was better than crying, but not by much. "Actually, would it be a good idea to call him anyway? Harry, I mean. We haven't spoken for a while but I know he feels somewhat...er...responsible for Voldemort, and he might...help."  
  
Snape shrugged. "If you like."  
  
If Harry didn't bother him, then Vampire-Snape had definitely risen above what he had been as a teacher. He saw her awed expression."Oh, I still despise the boy," he added nonchalantly. "For many reasons, not all of them unbased. But, as you so mechanistically put it, he may help."  
  
"Oh. Ok..."  
  
"However, I rather suspect that quite a lot of this will fall on your shoulders, Miss Granger."  
  
She looked at him, eyes widening abruptly. "Me?"  
  
He shrugged. "Just a guess, but it seems likely." He sighed. "I'll let you know if there are any new developments that need your presence, which may very well come to pass. For now, keep on with what you're doing, and remember that Aurors are soldiers. They know, or will remember, quickly enough, what they've been trained for."  
  
Hermione decided to place that little scrap of information in the "deal with this later" category. *Go to work. Do your job, whatever that is these days. *  
  
*Don't think about yesterday and don't think about tomorrow.*  
  
*There's a vampire in your bedroom who you still haven't told anybody about because for some reason you seem to trust him.*  
  
He watched her for a moment and was, apparently, satisfied that she had recovered enough.  
  
"It would be rather nice if we never saw one another again," he said in that perfect blend between humor and cruelty that always left her off balance. "But, alas, circumstances seem to foresee otherwise. Be careful. Oh, and get a better lock."   
  
And he left.  
  
Hermione stared stupidly after him for a while, then padded to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. She really was pale and sick, she realized, and the drugged sleep had done little more than make her feel tired.  
  
She thought longingly of sleep, of waking up to find everything taken care of. Of a leisurely breakfast of cocoa and croissants and a few days break from paperwork and panic.  
  
No. You have a job to do.  
  
Don't worry, Granger. You can sleep when you're dead. 


	6. Chapter VI

6.  
  
"Yeah. Hi. This is Harry. Um. This is an answering machine. So, when it beeps, you can say stuff and I will hear it later."  
  
Under normal circumstances, she might have giggled at the inane message. However, circumstances were not normal. Actually, they hadn't been for some time. Aside from the missing Minister, a new war brewing and the vampire-Snape, things hadn't been normal between her and Harry for a long time.  
  
At some point in her seventh year of school, as teenagers often do with people they have constant contact with, she had developed a crush on him, and Harry had reciprocated, or at least been willing to bluff it for the sake of normalcy. Three months later, she had discovered that she didn't like him at all.Ron had been jealous because he wanted the spotlight; the fame that followed Harry around like a loyal dog seemed to avoid him altogether.   
  
Hermione felt exactly the opposite: the fame tended to rub off on her in the worst possible way. Rita Skeeter had ensured that.   
  
If some fictional relationship with him was bad, dating Harry had been filed under Worst Ideas She'd Ever Had.  
  
She had tried to go back to being his friend, and Harry had almost immediately been bounced into the arms of Cho Chang, who had decided to give the somewhat-handsome, famous boy another chance.She almost smiled, remembering the ridiculous pretense she had concocted to get rid of him. Upon opening Viktor Krum's weekly, perfunctory ex-boyfriend letter, all about Quidditch victories and his family, she had given a little squeal and dashed out of the room, and mumbled something to Parvati Patil about having to go urgently read a book.   
  
rumors immediately began spreading and the farce began. The first thing she did was to write to Viktor and explain her situation and asked for his help. His reply was immediate, and the letters began pouring in, nearly daily. Hermione let no one read them and assumptions were made of the most libidinous kind. (The letters were usually a few jokes, a doodle or his notes from class, with the occasional witty observation about the whole thing thrown in. Viktor was actually secretly engaged to a charming woman named Natalia, who Hermione would meet much later.)  
  
And so, a week later, when she explained to Harry why she had to break up with him, he practically filled the story in for her. Hermione grinned tiredly to herself, and then realized that she had been holding the phone to her ear for a long time, and she was listening to silence. Embarrassed, she hung up and called him again. "Yeah. Hi. This is Harry. Um..."  
  
"Hi, Harry. This is Hermione," she said briskly. "I don't know what you've heard but we've got some serious problems on our hands. It would be absolutely great if...we didn't all get killed. Right? Um, stop by or give me a call if you can. I'm going back in to work now."  
  
Who was inane now? She grimaced. She had been about to say "absolutely great if you came by" and realized just in time what sort of damsel in distress role that would put her in. One she didn't want, that was damn sure. Harry the noble survivor, hero and sport's champion wasn't really the sort of person to let people rescue themselves.  
  
Hermione also knew that if she mentioned Snape, the man would be a pile of dust before she could say "Hang on Harry, I'm fairly sure he's not evil."  
  
She put her hair into a long tornado of a ponytail, not bothering with the usual McGonagall-like bun, and grabbed a long wool coat. She stuffed her purse with Kleenex and aspirin and cash, both wizard and muggle. Who knew how long it would be before she saw her flat again? Bloody well wasn't going to let that little French brat drug her, that's for certain.  
  
The tigress grin on the face of Hermione Granger as she jogged up the steps of the Ministry would have made Colette run for cover. As the girl was out running errands, Hermione settled for attacking her paperwork with a ferocity she hadn't felt since the NEWTs.  
  
"I'm sorry, Miss Granger, very sorry, please don't hurt me, they told me to!" Colette whimpered as she walked in, carrying more paper and shielding her face with it. Hermione raised an eyebrow and watched.   
  
"Oh, its all right. An older girl told you to do it, right?"  
  
Colette smiled weakly. "That's right." Then she froze. "Oh Sweet Jesus, Hermione, what HAPPENED to you?!" she shrieked.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Mon Dieu!" Colette fished in her pocket until she found a small round mirror, which she handed to Hermione silently.  
  
There was a nicely blossoming dark bruise across her left cheek, a nice balance against the shadows under her eyes and the now-fading marks of abuse on her wrist.  
  
"Oh, it's not as bad as it looks," she said lamely. "Ran into a pal--er, pole."  
  
Colette raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you have someone take a look at it?"Hermione brushed the bruise with her fingers. Definitely painful, very sensitive and a little swollen--funny, it hadn't seemed like he'd hit her that hard--but it wasn't warm or bleeding. "I'll be fine."  
  
"You did sleep, didn't you?"  
  
"I spent some time unconscious, yes."  
  
Colette, whose sharp and intelligent mind had been entirely responsible for the sleeping drugs, beamed. "Good."  
  
The cause of Hermione's bruises was somewhere very dark and very cold.   
  
He hoped, vaguely, that there weren't too many people here and those that were present weren't too bright. He would only be in trouble if they realized what he was before he could deal with them, and, especially in the dark, it wasn't that obvious.   
  
Of course, Severus Snape wasn't exactly going to be welcome either, but the shock of meeting a man ten years dead would probably be more helpful than not should things come to violence.  
  
Despite the dark and dank, the place was quite luxurious. Velvet upholstery and a well-stocked drinks cabinet. People had been here, recently, he could tell. (By the scent and also because there was a half finished poker game going on, five hands laid carefully face down on the table.)  
  
A man came down alone, and he ducked into a shadowy corner. He didn't recognize the face, but he was probably a Slytherin. Bulky and muscular and neckless, in a very Crabbe/Goyle sort of way, and also he was peeking at all the cards.  
  
Snape moved in a blur. To his chagrin, the man managed a small noise before Snape cracked his neck. Two others were down in an instant. The third was carrying a sword as well as a wand in a very Slytherin style, and was smaller and quicker and somewhat smarter than his friends. Snape wrested the sabre away, but not before the man inflicted a deep, narrow wound in his shoulder.  
  
Four men disposed of. Five hands laid on the table. Godsdammit, somebody got away. Somebody awfully paranoid.  
  
Of course, if these were followers of Monsieur Voldemort, anybody remotely intelligent was going to be paranoid. Snape clutched at the wounded shoulder. It would heal quickly, of course, but it was annoying to be losing blood. It came so dearly these days.  
  
Would be nice to satisfy the hunger on some nice, warm corpses, but these idiots were going to be found sooner or later and it would be a bad idea to leave clues. Anybody could snap necks, after all.  
  
No sense in leaving trails of blood, either. He bound the wound as best he could with a couple of handkerchiefs. None of the men carried anything useful, and the upstairs was disguised so well as a clothing store that it had customers, so that was out. He scrambled out the window, the way he had come in, and tried to look inconspicuous which, in the muggle London shopping district, wasn't too hard.  
  
Snape wondered, not for the first time, why he was doing this. Playing at White Hat was all very well and good, but it was going to get him killed. Or...something. Terminated, anyway. And what was the point, anyway? None of it would matter in a hundred years; all these people would be dead, so why did it matter if he saved them.  
  
On the other hand, in a hundred years, and barring any unfortunate circumstances, he -would- still be alive. Or...around anyway. It was a rather sickening thought, and one he generally tried to avoid.  
  
Being a White Hat, after all these years, came naturally, even to the rather odd morals of a vampire.  
  
His shoulder hurt like hell.   
  
What kind of moron would do that to him?  
  
Bleeding. What a waste of food.   
  
Poor starving children, and all that.  
  
Nobody would miss them, would they?   
  
He wondered where he could find some. 


	7. Chapter VII

Note: most of the other chapters have just been gone over, lengthened and corrected a bit. This one has been pretty much revised. Hope you like it. I'm certainly happy to be back with this story, which is, I hope, worth the effort.  
  
And don't own Harry Potter, etc...you know the drill. Feedback, of course, is always welcome.  
  
7.  
  
It was something of a war council, and a pretty damned pathetic one.  
  
There wasn't, and there should have been, a big, round oak table. Dim lighting, as well, so that their faces were in dramatic shadows. And most certainly, Hermione should have been shuffling papers, rather than paper napkins with semi-coherent scrawls on them.  
  
She sat at a single table in the basement cafeteria, trying to ignore the stickiness of the floor and the pervasive smell of fried chicken. Harry sat next to her, shifting uneasily, and dripping quietly onto the floor. It was, apparently, raining. Hermione hadn't seen the sky for days.  
  
All this magic, and this place was no more pleasant that the one where she'd eaten her PB&J in 2nd grade.Colette was there too, looking askance at Hermione, who still had a charming brown bruise decorating one side of her face. She had greeted Harry with the aristocratic calm of the French for which Hermione was incredibly grateful. She needed someone who hadn't gone all hero-worship.  
  
The lights were magic. Why, then, did they have all the unflattering qualities and irritating buzz of fluorescent?The rest of the table was crowded with a half-dozen aurors who knew vaguely what was going on, and could be spared from the busy, chaotic anthill hurry that the Ministry had turned into. No coffee. No paper, either, for some reason, which was why Hermione had resorted to napkins. No leads in the past three days, either.  
  
And another team had vanished.  
  
Hermione felt a sudden start at that. She had been reasonably close with the team head--Adrienne Welsh--and she felt suddenly guilty about listing coffee first in her list of worries. No, this was truly unsettling; the teams, these days, had remained in constant contact, and suddenly Adrienne's end had gone dead somewhere in Russia.  
  
Untraceable. People had to be somewhere, didn't they? Even if, and Hermione shuddered at the thought, all the teams had been killed, they should still be somewhere.  
  
Neither could anyone find Fudge, although that was a different matter. Nobody had really liked him, especially those working under him. And half the aurors had been quite observant in little matters like bribes with Malfoy seals on them. Actually, she realized, Colette was expressing exactly these thoughts aloud and Harry was nodding, his face grave.  
  
It had been easier than she had anticipated to talk to him again--aside from terse, distracted Happy-Christmas-Birthday-Thankgiving-Etc phone calls. He inevitably spent such events at the Weasleys, which made such calls very brief indeed.No; under cover of panic, all things were made simple.  
  
She realized, surprised, that no one was talking. They were simply shuffling papers or staring at their hands.  
  
It was a terribly unpleasant silence. Harry continued his dripping, which only succeeded in breaking the quiet in arrhythmic increments. Hermione glanced, surreptitiously, at the faces around her: grim, gray, lost and frustrated. Lost friends were on the table here--lost or dead, made worse in uncertainty.  
  
"Hermione," Harry said gently. "You're the boss. Say something."  
  
"Boss?" she ejaculated, startled.  
  
Colette gave her one of the 'don't be an idiot' looks the French are so skilled at. Hermione conceded. "Alright. We have to realize that unless we find a tracking spell that works, repeating the old ones isn't going to do any good. I think our best bet is to strengthen our defense, and get word out to the British wizarding community."  
  
"How?" said Colette, just as Harry said "Defense?"  
  
"Call Rita Skeeter," Hermione said to Colette. "As for your question, Harry, I don't think there's anything we can do besides defense. We don't know where they are. Or even who, for the most part. However, they know where the Ministry of Magic is because it's in a big building labeled 'Ministry of Magic.' Bit problematic, no?"  
  
He gave a rueful grin.  
  
"We've been treading water for the past week. We need to do something. Is there, in fact, anything we can do?"  
  
People started talking quietly. Hermione tried to listen, but found herself becoming strangely lightheaded.It was kind of pleasant.  
  
Rapidly getting less so, actually, and her vision seemed to be fading into little bright sparkly flashes of light, like a snowglobe or a TV-station with poor reception. She managed, though it was disturbingly difficult, to collapse forward onto the table, rather than fall off the cafeteria bench onto the sticky tile floor. She lost the battle to keep her eyes open, and felt, distantly, her breathing become raspy and uneven.  
  
Hermione had fainted once before, after some sort of childhood inoculation, at age eight. It had been a similar experience--same lightheadedness, same sparkly vision.  
  
Only...Only then, the sparkle hadn't been quite so overwhelmingly silver and green.  
  
The stuff resolved itself, slowly, into a figure. A cold, handsome face and a smile that was either very charming or deeply disturbing, depending on if you'd ever seen it in context before. He radiated power.  
  
She would have drawn back, if she could move.  
  
He laughed. No one, anywhere, ever, could have mistaken that laugh for anything but evil. It was worthy of a Disney villain.  
  
"Having fun, Granger?" Draco asked pleasantly, and she woke, trembling and nauseous.   
  
Hermione's recollection ended there, and she came around somewhere between her flat and the ministry, being carried gently by capable Quidditch-star arms. She groaned.  
  
"Are you alright?" Harry asked. "What was that?"  
  
"Ugh. Put me down, please."  
  
He tried, but the Hermione's legs refused to bear her weight, and he picked her up again. "Tell me when we get to your apartment, sweetie," he murmured, and only later would Hermione remember "sweetie" and worry about it.  
  
Apparently, the assembled group has surmised that she had simply been working too hard and collapsed from exhaustion. She explained to an increasingly grave Harry the few details of her little Draco-trip, and finished with a request that he get back to the ministry and keep things running until she could get back.  
  
"You aren't safe," he snapped in response before she'd finished listing her reasons.  
  
"No one's safe," she said in return, and if Hermione Granger hadn't been a witch and gone to Hogwarts, she would have been a champion of her high school debate team.   
  
"But he's targeting you!" Harry snapped. "For God's sake, stay put. I'll talk to the Ministry, but I'm sure they'll agree. If they're after you, you're going to keep a low profile."  
  
Harry was gone within five minutes, leaving Hermione feeling like a bad case of flu.She glanced at the ugly red-numbered alarm clock next to her bed. It was only 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Oh well. If she tried to go back to work, they'd only send her home again. Might as well never get a full 8 hours' sleep.Nothing ever went as planned in Hermione's life. In less than three, a man without a heartbeat darkened her doorway for the second time.  
  
She was sleeping quietly, curled up in a ball like a cold kitten, with quilts pulled up to her chin and tangled brown hair sprayed across her face. Her shoulders hunched and what little of her face he could see looked worried and tired and very young. Well, she was young, he told himself. Far too young to be doing a job that, as of yet, had not boasted a completely capable candidate.  
  
"Broke in again," he said from the doorway. "You don't take advice well, do you?"  
  
Hermione mumbled something incoherent.  
  
"Time to wake, Miss Granger. You have a job to do."  
  
She did, slowly, and not without regret. "You told me I was making myself sick," she argued plaintively. "You said to sleep. Everybody did, point of fact."  
  
"Such luxuries must be done without in times of trouble. What's wrong with you, anyway?"  
  
"Draco...did something to me," she said drowsily, before he could speak.  
  
"I know. I can feel it. Some sort of vision, yes?"  
  
"Yeah...I think he was trying to taunt me. I dunno. Harry said he thought I was a target and to stay here because I was in a lot of danger..."  
  
He crossed the floor and placed a cool hand across her forehead. "No," he said slowly. "Something more than that. He took something from you..."  
  
"WHAT?!"  
  
"Shh..." he paused. "Some bit of information, some little mind-read...an incredibly difficult spell to perform when not in the actual physical presence of someone and probably requiring more than one spellcaster. You would have noticed if he hadn't used the vision on top of it as a diversion."  
  
"So what does this mean?"  
  
"It means that, although you are indeed in a great deal of danger, you're not the target. Other than that, I can't tell until I examine what exactly Mr. Malfoy needed from you. You don't know, do you?"  
  
"What I might know that Malfoy would need? No idea. I mean, there's Ministry stuff, but nothing nobody else has knowledge of."  
  
"And most others would be a far easier target," he mused. "Well, we'll need the information."  
  
"And how do you plan to do that? I mean, you're an Occlumens, but..."  
  
"More complicated than that, you're right but it can be done. For now, stay here and pretend to be extraordinarily shaken by what was no more than a mere overconfident gloat on Malfoy's part." He sighed. "And if you might lend me a shower briefly, it would be greatly appreciated."  
  
She looked at him, her still blurry vision starting to focus...he was wearing black pants and the black trench coat, so old and worn that it was more gray than black.  
  
Grey, light enough to show the bloodstains.  
  
"HOW did that happen?!" she cried, hurrying to him, suddenly shedding both her fear of Snape-the-overly-cruel-professor and Snape-the-vampire.  
  
Snape rolled his eyes. "Its fine. I assure you." Hermione, to his disgust, had begun to examine the stain with concern.  
  
"You lost a lot of blood," she said accusingly. "It's a wonder you're standing."  
  
"It was quite some time ago," he retorted, still annoyed with the wasteful blood loss. "And, while irritating, it isn't life-threatening. Or it wouldn't be, if I had one to threaten. As to how, I was examining a lead and ran into trouble."  
  
"A lead?"  
  
"Too late. And with every...ah...run-in, our mastermind becomes a little more careful. I think, right now, you're the best lead we've got."  
  
And he smiled the most terrifying smile Hermione had ever seen in her life.  
  
Something in his expression, frightening as it was, gave her hope.  
  
Draco Malfoy was playing with fire. 


	8. Chapter VIII

A new chapter! Finally, I've returned! Hopefully the muse will remain! Feedback=always welcome. Insert the usual disclaimer here.  
  
8.  
  
The water poured over a muscular, icy pale body. The shoulder stung slightly as the intense heat hit it--it would, he guessed, be a few more days before it was completely healed. Unlucky timing.   
  
He dabbed at it carefully with a washcloth Hermione had kindly provided, and a steady stream of brown-tinted water flowed down his chest and ran snakelike across the bottom of the bathtub. Clean, the wound was much less deep than it had been, but still raw and ugly. No veins had been severed, for which he was grateful, but its placement was such that it interfered with the arm's movement. Even after the flesh had healed, it would be stiff and sore.  
  
The soap in the soap dish was bright pink and smelled dreadfully feminine. He used the small bar of scentless white hand soap by the sink, the same he had used to dab the blood out of the shoulder of his shirt. Hermione had taken the coat.  
  
He took a deep, unnecessary breath, and simply succumbed to the warm water. Hermione's flat was unquestionably hideous, built sometime in 1930 and then refurbished in the 80s, and bearing the worst qualities of both. But at least it functioned well.  
  
The water was coppery and the show slightly moldy; although Hermione undoubtedly did her best, not a lot missed the extraordinary senses of a vampire. Despite that, it was wonderfully pleasant. He couldn't remember the last time he had lingered in the shower. One must indulge in luxury when one can, he thought, and with a trace of guilt succumbed to the warmth.  
  
How long had this been his body? 8 years? Ten? It was still unfamiliar, when he thought about it. He had been pale before, and quite lean, but now he was almost white, and rail-thin. He had spent nearly a year adjusting to his un-life before he could be relied on not to wrench doors off their hinges when trying to open them.  
  
He remembered that, now, understanding if not appreciating the humor. The pale, dignified vampire unable to accomplish the smallest chore because he kept breaking things. It had been hell at the time, of course; there were fist sized holes in his walls still--the results of poorly vented frustration. He had been forever mending quills, unable to write more than a page before he got distracted and snapped them. There had been no sire, no master vampire to help him discover life again. Simply a man whose world had, until then, been pleasantly routine, jolted suddenly into an unfamiliar life, an unfamiliar body, slowly and painfully figuring the small, miserable details, like how to not break pens. SPF 70 sunblock.  
  
Which, he realized with a start, he had washed off in the shower. Growling with impatience and frustration, he climbed out of the shower, hoping Hermione could provide him with some.  
  
The shirt was slightly damp, but he dressed anyway, smoothing wet hair back so that he looked far more the dangerous creature of the night than he felt.  
  
Hermione was just finishing a can of condensed soup as he emerged, and answering another owl note, saying that, yes, she was indeed very shaken and should probably rest for a while, and hoped they could keep going.   
  
She nodded at him. "Your coat should be dry in another ten minutes and I think I've bought some time with the Ministry. Want to tell me exactly what's going on?"  
  
"I may be much stronger than the Snape you knew at a school, but I am, alas, no more omnipotent," he said. "I know little more than you do, and much of my knowledge is probably too old to be useful. Whatever knowledge you posses that you are unaware of is probably our best bet."  
  
"So what do we do?"  
  
"Go back to my flat, for a start. Hopefully, the Ministry will assume you're sleeping if you don't answer any letters."  
  
"And then...?"  
  
"I'll explain later."  
  
This was getting irritating. "If at some point you feel like giving me a straight answer, I'll be happy to listen to you. You just sort of sidle into all of this and I have no idea what's going on! I think I'm going crazy. Well, between you and Draco, its no surprise! You hit me, and I still have a bruise--see? You're a vampire, and I trust you. Why?" *Ok, Granger, you're starting to sound childish.*  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "Because I obviously trust you. And, perhaps because Gryffindor or not, you tend towards a remarkable capability for thinking. And you're the only one with the information we need and I'm probably the only one who can retrieve it."  
  
Hermione absorbed this. "I see."  
  
"I am sorry I hit you, if it helps," he added, so carefully nonchalant that she realized it was a difficult thing for him to say.  
  
"Its all right." She sighed. " I suppose they will manage without me."  
  
"Magnificent Monsieur Potter will carry on, I'm sure."  
  
"Remind me to ask you why you dislike him so much," Hermione murmured, but with a rueful smile. "Not that I can't guess."  
  
He grinned wryly and Hermione bit her lip. The teeth that had once been yellowed and crooked were perfectly straight and very, very white. And a great deal sharper than she remembered.  
  
He laughed; not cruel, or cold, but warm and incredibly human. "Disconcerting, is it? I've never really been able to see for myself."  
  
"Ah. Right. You don't..."  
  
"Have a reflection. No. Crosses, running water, no problem. Holy water, problem. Garlic, severe nausea and skin irritation. And sunlight...yes, by the way, would you possess any sunscreen? I believe we should get going."  
  
Oddly, the volunteered information was making her feel better.  
  
Hermione found him a bottle of sunscreen and fetched the now clean and dry and chemical-smelling trench coat from the dryer. She tied her hair back firmly and tried to decide what she needed to take. She herself was wearing worn, tight-fitting jeans and a long suede jacket that seemed strangely flattering.  
  
Eventually, she packed a shoulder bag with both muggle and wizard money and a few emergency charms and tricks, as well as a few snacks. Snape's house had been decidedly lacking in food.  
  
*Well, except for you,* she thought to herself, and tried not to shudder at the thought.  
  
Hermione sighed. "I may never see this apartment again."  
  
He looked at her. "I hope that I as well may be so lucky," he said, impatient to leave, and Hermione laughed.  
  
It was a long walk back to Snape's flat, and an awkward one. He was trying, she could tell, to go slower, for her sake. She watched him, trying to overcome her fear of him, at least part of which had nothing to do with vampires at all and was simply rooted in the fact that he had been a cruel and miserable man at Hogwarts and her childhood terror was a hard one to shake.  
  
She fell behind, eventually, and watched his back, trying to compare the twin images of Snape living and dead. Still snarky and sarcastic and cruel and yet, somehow, basically -good.- Still brilliant. Handsome now, though, and pale and graceful, with that edge of danger he'd always had somehow refined-less vicious now, more dashing.  
  
*Dashing? Handsome? Oh no, Granger. You're -not- going to start that.*  
  
He felt her presence behind him, even as he did not see her. He could smell her, anyway-exhaustion, and fear, and -female- and it unnerved him. Her presence brought out long dormant emotion; mainly pity. Her bruises and her bloodshot eyes and the fact that a long walk that was nothing to him was going to exhaust her bothered him, and it shouldn't have. He was a monster, beyond such things.  
  
But maybe that was just because he hadn't had any long-term contact with people really since he'd been Turned. Part of him saw her as female and longed for her. Part of him saw her as human-and hungered. Mostly, of course, he realized that he was twenty years her senior, and that she trusted him; and more importantly that she held the only clue they had to preventing another war, and liberties of any sort were not to be taken. A small part of him, however, was aware that despite the fact that her was a monster, and, additionally was not being and had never been anything but cruel to her, she was being nice to him. It was a disconcerting thought.  
  
So he simply walked, pushing such things from his mind and concentrating on what books he was going to need and where they were, and if he had all the potions supplies this was going to require and thought that he probably did, and, if he didn't, he was just going to improvise because shopping was not really a good idea right now.  
  
His shoulder was tingling, like a foot fallen asleep, which meant that healing was almost complete. 


	9. Chapter IX

A new chapter!  
  
9.  
  
He was grinding something in a small pestle, and pacing slowly, although he could go only about four or five steps in each direction--his home was small and cluttered, his legs to long--and he seemed to find it frustrating. Hermione was sitting nervously in the squishy leather armchair (the match to the couch she'd fallen asleep on) and watching him. Neither was speaking, and both were very conscious of that.  
  
"Is that for the...whatever-it-is you're going to do?" she finally asked.  
  
"Hmm?" He glanced at the substance in his hands. "Oh, no. This is just for me. I haven't gotten started on the potion yet." He paused, paying no attention to his hands. "Would you like some tea?"  
  
Tea with the vampire managed to diffuse the tension a little, and Hermione got to see a little more of Snape's flat. Hermione's tea of choice was green mint, black. His, a dark, fragrant lemon with milk, two sugars and whatever it was he had been powdering.  
  
She looked at it curiously when he tapped the foul-smelling, black-gray powder into his mug.   
  
"What -is- that stuff?"  
  
"You, Miss Granger, are a thoroughly nosy young woman," he growled. "Iron pills. Ordinary, muggle iron pills."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"No substitute for the real thing, of course, but I can manage for a few more days on this. As I may well have to."  
  
"Oh. Um..."  
  
"Any further questions, Miss Granger?"  
  
The dark sarcasm was starting not to bother her so much. "Tell me about this potion you're going to use on me."  
  
"Technically, a statement, Granger...ah well. I don't suppose it matters. The Mensarien is more of a ritual than a potion, although there is a large potions component. It's rather obscure and rarely called for; I've only used it twice before. It comes in two parts; the first is to determine what the last spell used on you was looking for, and what it found, and the second will actually read that. It shouldn't be too difficult and there shouldn't be any complications."   
  
He sounded confident, and Hermione was comforted. "Can I help?"  
  
"I don't need or want you underfoot. I would suggest you rest for a while. You look exhausted, and the Mensarien will work better on a relaxed mind."  
  
That was certainly good news for Hermione, who, although always on the lookout for education, was practical enough, and self-indulgent enough, to realize that the prospect of sleep was a very pleasant one indeed. She curled up on Snape's leather couch, and tried to relax.  
  
She must've fallen asleep almost immediately, because the low, impatient "Time to get up, Miss Granger" seem to come barely minutes later.   
  
"Sleeping," she mumbled.  
  
"No," he said, "you aren't. You're getting up right now, or I am going to do something unpleasant to you."  
  
He didn't sound particularly serious, but she wasn't going to risk it. She rose gathering the blanket around her like a toga...  
  
*...and wait, since when had there been a blanket?*  
  
"Aww," she said sweetly. "you do care."  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to respond to that?"  
  
"No," she said, considering. "Not really."  
  
"Upstairs," he said, changing the subject tactfully. "I have most of the ritual set up. Just need a few things from you, and we should be able to being."  
  
"From me? What, like measurements?"  
  
"Drop of blood, Miss Granger."  
  
"Oh," she said. "Um..."  
  
"It isn't a Dark ritual, Granger, merely a very old one. And I promise not to take any liberties, if that's what you're worried about."  
  
"It wasn't," she said sharply. "It is now. Thanks."  
  
"Always a pleasure," he said vaguely. Come on."  
  
Upstairs was a bit darker than his living room, and the windows were still boarded up, even from the inside. The study, where a large circle of chalk symbols was situated, was large and airy and full of books with a single worn chair at a large oak desk and a rolled-up rug in one corner.  
  
There were a few silver bowls of herbs and liquids and a few strategically placed candles, which must have been part of the ritual, because they were smoky and squat and smelled strongly of something completely unidentifiable.  
  
"Have you ever used a Pensieve before?" he asked.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Think of it as something like that. If you feel a tug at a particular thought or memory, try to concentrate on it as best you can. There is something of a trance involved, but it shouldn't be terribly deep. You'll probably be able to hear me throughout."  
  
"Sounds fine. When do we get to the blood bits?"  
  
"You sound so impatient. Anyway, I just need a drop or two in this bowl to tie the spells to you specifically."  
  
It seemed innocuous enough. Hermione let Snape nick her hand and squeezed out two drops of blood onto the herbs in the basin. He seemed to suck in his breath as he watched them fall, but made no move toward the cut.  
  
"Good. Now step into the middle of the circle--do -not- smear the chalkings--and kneel down. Just try to relax."  
  
She looked at the marks on Snape's rough wood floor as she knelt; symbols that looked a little like Arabic and a flowing pattern that reminded her, oddly enough, of paisley. Four points, each with a different symbol; she wondered if it had to do with cardinal directions or charkas. But even as she was getting interested in the chalkings, he hissed softly between his teeth.  
  
"Relax, I said, Granger. This is not the time for academic interest."  
  
She shrugged, and settled down, closing her eyes.  
  
Perhaps it was something in the candles, or the command in Snape's voice, or the fact that she really needed to sleep, but she found herself drifting off even as she felt him dab something tingly and cold between her eyes.  
  
"There," he murmured. "Just relax." And he began chanting, softly and slowly, in some language she didn't recognize. Or perhaps several languages, as she imagined she could catch hints of latin and greek in the mix. But mostly she just listened to Snape's voice, low and velvety, tireless and beautiful...and fading from her awareness entirely.  
  
She didn't really notice much, just wisps of stray thoughts; Snape's search or Draco's, she couldn't tell. Bit of Draco's threat and a taste of dark, alien magic that she was sure wasn't the Mensarien.   
  
And then, a flash of red hair and a wide, wicked grin. "Don't tell anybody, Hermione! I'm tired of this place and these people. They can't think I've run off to join the circus, for all I care."  
  
"No, I won't tell, I promise. I'll try to come visit this summer."  
  
"That would be terrific! Andriano is a great guy, and we're---"  
  
And then, that touch of darkness seemed to rear up, swallowing the brief image and threatening to attack her.   
  
It was going to devour her whole, memories and all, and leave no hope for the wizards of Britain.  
  
She wanted to scream, but she couldn't.   
  
Wanted to struggle.   
  
Wanted to call for Snape, and maybe hit him a little, demand what the hell had gone wrong, what was this and what was it doing in her head?  
  
It was like a Dementor, in her head, but more aggressive, more violent, and she wanted to cry, but she couldn't even move, wasn't even aware of her physical body, and barely aware of her mind, which was drifting towards the blackness as if magnified...  
  
And then, slowly, she was blinking the darkness away, and she realized that she -was- crying, and she -was- screaming and she -was- struggling, but it wasn't against that awful dark magic but against a rather awful, but strangely trustworthy, dark creature whose voice was fading slowly back into her consciousness.  
  
"...calm down, girl, you're going to hurt yourself. Granger. Granger! Look, fine, Hermione...shh, shh...it's all right, I'm sorry. I didn't realize that might happen."  
  
"WHAT might happen, you bastard?!" she snarled, and hit him, hard, in the chest. "That was terrifying! What went wrong?!"  
  
"Nothing went wrong with the Mensarien. But Draco left a little guard in your mind, and it took me a little too long to realize what it was."  
  
"Oh," she said. Hermione realized that they were on the floor, tangled together; that their clothes were streaked with chalk dust and the circle was badly smeared. There were candles and bowls knocked over, and her heart was racing, and she was still tangled in Snape's arms, but this time that terrifying strength was more comforting than frightening and she didn't want to move.   
  
"Are you alright?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," she said tentatively. "I think so. Are you sure it worked?"  
  
But he didn't let go, just held her, moving a hand on her back in wide, rhythmic circles and smoothing her hair away from her face, letting her lean against his chest and wrap her arms around his shoulders. "I'm sure. I'm also fairly sure that that spell was more of a safeguard than anything else; I doubt it will have alerted Draco, so as far as he knows, the White Hats are still in the dark. It gives us an edge we may need."  
  
Hermione hadn't even considered that the horrible spell had been some sort of alert, and she shuddered at the thought. She also, on further consideration, blinked in surprise at what had obviously been a casual Muggle reference on Snape's part.  
  
She didn't say anything for a long time, just stayed put and let the shakes slowly ease away. He wasn't warm, but he was oddly comforting...so strong and proud...and...  
  
...watching her whimper like a first year because of one little spell. She froze, suddenly, and pulled away.  
  
He caught a stray wisp of that thought and the cringe on her face. "You've no cause to be embarrassed about your reaction to Draco's little parting gift," he said firmly, pulling her back, so that they could sit, side by side (on the floor, in the chalk) with an arm around her waist. "That was a truly alarming magic, and a very dangerous one. Most people would have fared far worse."  
  
"And you got rid of it," she said softly.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"So..."  
  
He shrugged. "Am I right in assuming that the girl in your memory was Ginny Weasley?"  
  
She nodded.   
  
"That," he said, after a long pause. "Cannot possibly be good."   
  
*********  
  
And so there we are. My first new chapter to this story in a VERY long time and the return of the fanfic muse.  
  
And there was much rejoicing. 


	10. Chapter X

10.  
  
  
  
* * * * * * *   
  
"That," he said, after a long pause. "Cannot possibly be good."  
  
* * * * * * *   
  
She didn't say anything.  
  
"I gather Miss Weasley had vanished? I'm afraid I don't really keep up on these things."  
  
"She eloped. Said she was going to New York with some Andriano Something. Didn't want the press all over her again. I understood that, but I guess she didn't even tell her family. Not the first time she's disappeared, so I guess they didn't worry. It's been about five months, and I haven't gotten any more than a postcard."  
  
"We'll have to find her, then, before the Deatheaters can do whatever it is they plan to do with her."  
  
"Wait. What? 'We?' I need to warn Ginny, and I need to alert the Ministry-"  
  
"Doing so will undoubtedly alert the other side as well, Miss Granger."  
  
She fell silent. "So what do we do?"  
  
He sighed. "We take a few minutes to think about this rationally. Why is she so important?"  
  
"That business in her first year, probably..."  
  
He nodded.  
  
"But I don't know-"  
  
"Wait," he said suddenly, and began counting on his fingers, muttering softly: "Curses, dragons, paperboy, twins, sidekick, girl."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Curses; one. Dragons; two. Paperboy; three. Twins; four and five. Sidekick; six. And Ginny. Fuck."  
  
*Maybe he's gone mad. I probably would, if somebody killed me, I suppose.* "What are you going on about?"  
  
"To hell and back again," he snarled, and it was a true snarl, fangs and all; he shoved her away from him and stood, violently. "Why the HELL didn't anyone EVER MENTION THIS?!"  
  
He was, without a doubt, scary when he was angry, but he'd been scaring her rather nonstop since she'd met him, so she managed to say, calmly: "Snape. What are you talking about?"  
  
He was, suddenly calm again. He sat back next to her, elbows on his knees, forehead resting in his hands. "Have you ever considered Ginny Weasley to be a particularly powerful witch?"  
  
"Not really, no," Hermione said, a little guilty. "I mean, she was good at charms, and herbology, but-"  
  
"No. Not talent. Oh, hells. Power. Do you understand? No one thinks Albus Dumbledore is -good- at anything. He's just powerful. Is she?"  
  
"No, then. Why?"  
  
He took a deep breath. "Because she's the seventh child in a wizarding family, and a pureblood family at that. Which generally means that somewhere within her is a great amount of latent power, and we're all in a hell of a lot of trouble if the Black Hats get their paws on her."  
  
"Oh," said Hermione. "Fuck."   
  
"Precisely."  
  
"I've never heard of this seventh child thing."  
  
"How many wizarding families these days go up that high?"  
  
"True."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"What's going to happen to her?"  
  
"I'm not sure. I think I know what they need her for--when that charmed diary took hold of her, Ginny, being the extraordinarily powerful witch that nobody knows she is must have absorbed some of it. It all boils down to memory. Within her, she carries the memory of Voldemort young and powerful and...well...human. Given her status as a seventh, they might be able to use her to revive him somehow."  
  
"That..." It was a pretty big leap of the imagination, she had to admit to herself, but he sounded very much like he knew what he was talking about.  
  
"It simply cannot be allowed to happen."  
  
"No. What do we do?"  
  
"'We,' Miss Granger?"  
  
"Well, the ministry isn't going to be much good in this, is it? And who am I to turn down a vampire as an ally?" seeing his annoyed look, she added: "You do kick ass, after all."  
  
"Thanks," he said sarcastically.  
  
"Do you think we could go see Dumbledore?"  
  
He looked mildly surprised. "Yes, I suppose we could do that. I hadn't thought of it. He might be able to confirm my theory. I haven't seen the man in years."  
  
There was a dark look in his face she didn't think she had ever seen before. He looked almost betrayed. She would have thought that he would have clung dearly to one of his last connections to the world.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I lost my faith in him, and I had too much to start with. He gambled too easily with other peoples' money, and he lost too much for his victory."  
  
She looked him in the eye for what may have been the first time. Hermione felt, for the first time, how unfair it was that her own close circle had come through the last battle so relatively unscathed. "I'm sorry," she said slowly . "I said that before, and you laughed at me. But I am sorry about what happened to you."  
  
He returned the gaze, looking a little sorrowful. "Thank you, then, I suppose. So am I."  
  
And she kissed him.  
  
She rose to her knees and placed a hand on his shoulder, and leaned over, brushing her lips against his. He was soft, and cold and she had been thinking about this for some time. For a long moment, he didn't move, and visions we passing before her eyes of Snape tossing her aside scornfully and sweeping out, leaving her to stew in her embarrassment.   
  
But he didn't. He simply wrapped his arms around her, one at the small of her back, one at her neck, and pulled her closer, so that she tumbled forward onto his lap.  
  
She was pressed close to him, his cool, hard frame starting to stir warmth within her, just prepared to deepen the passion in their kiss when he did, in fact, push her away.  
  
Only to arm length, though, and he stared at her in mild surprise. She looked at him, eyes wide with innocence and fear, waiting to be crushed. She wasn't a girl fond of, or used to, being vulnerable.   
  
"You don't," he said carefully, "want to do that."  
  
She blinked. "I think I might be a little better equipped to determine that, Snape."  
  
He let his hand trail along the curve of her jaw. "You're young. Alive. Not prepared to deal with what I am."  
  
"I -know- what you are."  
  
"No. You don't." He sighed. "And I have no intention whatsoever of showing you."  
  
"Do you like me, even a little?"  
  
"Yes," he said wearily. "I do. It doesn't help."  
  
"And I like you, God knows why. And we both need someone, I think. You hated me once."  
  
"No more than I hated any student. Although, in my defense, you were damned irritating. Incidentally, one of the benefits death is the extreme rarity with which one encounters children."  
  
She smiled weakly. "Were?"  
  
He smiled, close-mouthed and non-threatening. "Are, then." She giggled.  
  
She took his hand in hers. He let her hold it, wondering at the length and grace of his long fingers. And then, blinked sharply, swallowed hard, and reclaimed it.  
  
"No. Not now, at least. All right? We have too many other things, far more important things, to worry about."  
  
"All right. Not now."  
  
He sighed again. "I'm a vampire. You, Miss Granger-"  
  
"Hermione."  
  
"Fine. Hermione. You, Hermione, are at least twenty years my junior. I am vampire. I used to be your professor-"  
  
"Later, Snape."  
  
"Severus," he said heavily, and she smiled wickedly.  
  
"Severus. We can be friends, at least."  
  
They sat in silence for a few minutes.  
  
"Do you have the energy to make it to Hogwarts?" he asked.  
  
"Not it we're walking," she answered. "Barely made it here."  
  
"I highly doubt I'd want to walk to Scotland. But you seem to have recovered somewhat, so we'd best be off. Time is of the essence, Hermione."  
  
So she simply went back downstairs and brushed the chalk off her pants, gathered up her bag and gave Snape her sunblock, noting idly that it was a little past dawn. *When did that happen?*  
  
He filled a backpack with various materials; potions ingredients, by the look of it, she thought. Tea packets and iron pills and a few extra shirts. (All black, predictably.) A carton, astonishingly, of cigarettes, and another pack in his pocket. He lit up the minute they got out the door.  
  
"Filthy habit," she pointed out as they reached the sidewalk. "I didn't know you smoked."  
  
"I didn't, at Hogwarts. Albus insisted I quit. Post mortem, I thought I might as well take it back up again, as most of the harmful effects are rather meaningless."  
  
She sighed. "So how are we getting to Hogwarts?"  
  
"We," he said with a smirk, "are going to Apparate."   
  
She looked annoyed. "You know perfectly well that I -can't- Apparate; the minute I do, the Ministry'll know I'm not at home."  
  
With a flick of the wrist, he brandished his wand. He grinned, wickedly, looking for a moment like some odd lovechild of Mephistopheles and Puck.  
  
"You," she said sharply, Ministry-witch at her most formal, "are NOT supposed to have that."  
  
He laughed, coldly. Of course he wasn't. She knew enough about vampires to know they had certain inherent magical powers; she had witnessed a degree of Snape's mind control only days ago. And furthermore, the Ministry absolutely forbid allowing wizards-turned- just-about-anything wands, much less what was possibly the most dangerous creature any human could become.  
  
"Ah, there's the little rule-loving, rule-breaking know-it-all we knew and loved at Hogwarts," he snickered. "Such righteous outrage. Going to tell on me?"  
  
"Not at the moment," she said wryly. But she wasn't really outraged; she was just plain scared.  
  
"If it's any help, I'm not very good with it. Just doesn't come naturally."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Vampires are geared toward certain types of magic and wand-waving isn't one of them."  
  
"You're still good with potions though."  
  
He shrugged, looking a little forlorn. "Still good, but very limited. Nothing with live or fresh plants works well for me. Vampires and flowers don't get along."  
  
She'd heard that before, somewhere, and nodded sympathetically. It must be awful for his genius to be so contradicted by his very nature.  
  
"I don't need your pity, by the way."  
  
She didn't say anything, just stared at him--some odd amalgamation of wizard and vampire, impossible, really, not to mention illegal. He held out a hand, and she took it, and felt with strange clarity the cool, smooth skin and the strength of it, before the familiar-and-yet-unsettling tug pulled at her and the world disappeared. 


	11. Chapter XI

11.  
  
She had been noticing, throughout their brief acquaintance, that Snape might still be as darkly moody and viciously sarcastic as the old professor she had known, but he wasn't nearly as miserably hate-filled. Now maybe some of that had been the role he played at school, either for some mysterious Spy Reasons or simply because he hated children and that was the only way he could deal with it.  
  
But some of that misery had been impossible to fake. The teacher, then, she surmised, had been wracked with guilt. Perhaps he felt he'd paid it off; after all, he'd given his life and kept on working for Good. So maybe his debt was gone.  
  
Or maybe vampires were simply above things like guilt. Or beyond. Whatever. Something in his newfound genetic makeup simply wasn't conducive to such misery.  
  
Either way, nasty he might still be, but she was definitely not going to complain if he had definitely traded that wretched, hateful cruelty for a hearty dose of mysterious sex-appeal.  
  
That is, until they reached the gates of Hogwarts.  
  
It all came sliding back. She could see it in his posture, in his face, the way the muscles of his neck tensed and his jaw hardened. She could tell, even beneath that careful, masked expression that he was fighting against some urge to leave this place of miserable memories. She looked at his hands, curled into fists so tight the nails cut the palms (the cuts would be healed within ten minutes.) Leave Hogwarts, or burn it.  
  
"Albus Dumbledore, open the gates," he said out loud, and after a few moments, the doors opened silently.  
  
The halls were dead quiet, the lights dimmed, the paintings sleeping in their frames. It ought to be intensely nostalgic, walking those halls again, but all Hermione was aware of was some deep struggle going on within the man walking beside her, so silent that she had to glance at him every now and then to make sure he was still there.  
  
Don't talk, she told herself firmly. He looks about ready to start ripping throats out. Or talk, maybe; find out why he looks ready to break down. What happened to him, anyway?  
  
No. Have the good sense not to poke the dragon.  
  
The entry to Dumbledore's office was already open, and Snape paused at it, as if willing it not to exist. As if he could wish hard enough, and this whole place, this whole once-life would just vanish in a puff of smoke and leave nothing but a great peaceful black emptiness.  
  
And maybe the girl beside him, who was obviously burning to ask him what was going on (and since when was he that easy to read, anyway?) But who didn't. She simply stood there, waiting for him to make the first move, feeling rather mysteriously like moral support.  
  
So he walked up the stairs.   
  
Dumbledore was waiting behind his desk, looking unsurprised at their presence, which irritated them both. Who was he to play omnipotent at a time like this?  
  
Hermione met his eyes, and he nodded at her, but turned his gaze to Snape, who met the blue stare for a long time.  
  
Nobody spoke. Eventually, Snape, with deliberate carelessness, lit a cigarette.  
  
He'd been through a pack already, and honestly, Hermione thought, he was starting to stink of them. But now she wanted to grin. You go, Snape. Show him who's on top of things.  
  
We are.  
  
And finally, letting a long stream of blue smoke curl into the air, Snape spoke: "History has repeated itself, Dumbledore. And you've gone and used up all your trumps, haven't you?"  
  
"Then the Deatheaters really are on the rise again."  
  
"And nursing their leader back to health as we speak. Really, you ought to keep up better."   
  
Inwardly, she smiled again. Snape was masking his betrayal well, retreating behind nastiness, and doing it with skill.  
  
Dumbledore said, quietly. "Something must be done."  
  
"Do you think?"  
  
At this she really did smile, which drew the Headmaster's attention. "I admit, I am surprised to see you here, Miss Granger."  
  
He'd been a rock for her, once, as well. She didn't feel the betrayal that Snape did, certainly, but Dumbledore was getting irritating.  
  
"I was surprised to find Draco had been killing off my Aurors."  
  
Dumbledore looked taken aback--either at the news, or Hermione's callousness.  
  
"We thought--or rather, Miss Granger did," Snape said calmly. "That you would have some sort of answer for us. But I rather suspect you don't."  
  
"No, I'm afraid. Hope must be pinned on someone else this time. You two, amazed as I am too see you, are-"  
  
"NO," Snape growled, voice loud and hate-filled. "I won't. You've no right to ask anything of me. I was some misguided archangel to your God-" venom spilled from his black eyes into his black voice "for far too long, all the while feeling as if I could never repent enough. As if you held some sort of magic I could use to purge myself of all the wrongs I ever did. As if it mattered. But no matter how much faith the world has in you, you can't work miracles."  
  
"You're right," Dumbledore said. "I can't. I never claimed to."  
  
"Every gesture you make, every expression on your face makes that claim," Snape said heavily. "I was once far too willing to follow. Far too faithful."  
  
"Faith, Severus, is not a bad thing."  
  
Severus sneered, and what had once been a beacon of light in a dark world was just an old man, who claimed no holiness but did not dispute it when attributed to him, so painfully good that he couldn't see the darkness when it rose against him. 'Gambled with other people's money,' Snape had said, or something like that, and she saw the truth in that.   
  
Snape left. Simply picked up his bag and flicked his cigarette to the floor and walked out. Hermione sat, for a moment, watching the Headmaster stare after him with regret on his face.  
  
"I should not ask you to work with him," he finally said to her. "He's dangerous, like that. I should have saved him, before this...sometimes sacrifices must be made. I will ask you to be careful."  
  
Another sacrifice, she thought bitterly. "I don't think," she said calmly. "You should ask anything. Of either of us."  
  
"One last trump to play," he said wearily. "Gods grant that it be enough."  
  
And she shared, just for a moment, that bitter hatred that Snape did for this old man. "No." She stood up and left, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "I may be misguided enough still to believe in the black and white, good and evil, but Snape is nobody's trump."  
  
Gamble with your own money. Play your own hand.  
  
She saw Snape's face, still twisted, still fighting for calm as they walked back, as they crossed the grounds to the edge of the forest where he could Apparate.  
  
Hermione paused. "You don't," she said calmly. "Have to tell me what happened..."  
  
"I have no intention of it," he said shortly.  
  
He radiated power, tangible and dark, and it frightened her. But she also was aware of a terrible sorrow, of a man with too little joy in his life and too little faith and too much blood and betrayal.  
  
But the miscalculation on her part turned nervousness into absolute terror when he reacted to a gentle hand placed on his shoulder by snatching the wrist in a vise grip, snarling and twisting around, bringing them body to body, nose-to-chin; she would have felt the heat radiate off him had there been any heat to do so, and as it was, all she felt was power.  
  
"You -don't- know what I am," he hissed. "You don't, and you don't want to. You don't have the right to ask me, to ask this of me, any more than -he- does."  
  
"Severus..."  
  
"Or maybe you do want to know," he continued. "and maybe if I weren't going to go with you to save that damnable little girl--I have no idea why--I would show you. Maybe I still will." And he traced a finger down her throat, across her jaw, down the side of her neck...sending shivers in its wake and heat straight to her groin. "Is that what you want?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You seemed to, back at my house," his voice was low and purring now, his fury not quite abated, but diffused. "Don't you want to finish what you started? Or are you finally starting to realize what I am?"  
  
His hand was still trailing up and down the side of her neck, sending electric currents on its course. He bent down to kiss her jaw, and she -wanted- him too, terribly. Wanted him to touch her, take her, body and blood, because if he didn't, it might kill her.   
  
She let him back her against a tree, let him kiss her as thoroughly as anyone had ever been kissed, and wanted him more than anything, more than air, more than life, and certainly more than saving Ginny. Her body was full of those little fear/sex chills and her brain was getting warm and pink and cloudy.  
  
In the bookstore, he had told her to go away, and she had -wanted- to, more than anything, and it had felt, aside from the rising heat in her, exactly like this.   
  
Warm pink clouds of mindlessness and desire.  
  
She shoved him away, and slapped him, although miserably aware of just how little that would do.  
  
"Don't you DARE," she hissed violently. "do that to me."   
  
Hermione was seething in hatred and frustration, and her blow had done nothing to him, although judging by the sting in her hand, it was the hardest she had ever hit someone.  
  
He smirked, and took a step back, as if to admire her from a distance, and she sank down to sit unsteadily at the roots of the tree.  
  
It was cruel beyond cruel, like Imperious, only worse; under the Unforgivable the worst you could do was, well, DO something. Snape could make you WANT it.  
  
Her breath heaved, her body protested, and she stared at him, chill with terror.  
  
And he smiled. "No? No titillating expeditions into the unknown shadows of lust for the brave Miss Granger today?"  
  
"Don't touch me."  
  
He snickered again. "If I really wanted to, do you think you could stop me?"  
  
Crueler than cruel. She shuddered and blinked back tears. "I don't know what Dumbledore did to you," she said quietly. "But don't take it out on me. I don't think this is you, Severus."  
  
"And why, pray tell, is that, Miss Granger?"  
  
"You apologized, for hitting me, a while back."  
  
"Perhaps I am simply very skilled at manipulating people."  
  
"I know you are."  
  
He grinned, leering. "Perhaps you're more tempting than you think."  
  
She snorted. "I doubt it."  
  
He laughed, and sat down beside her. "And if I apologized for this?"  
  
"I don't think it would make a difference. Snape, if we're going to be...working together, I have to trust you. You...can't..." She gestured vaguely.  
  
"No," he said idly. "You need me. Trust has nothing to do with it."  
  
She just looked sorrowful. *Teach me to have a thing for dangerous types,* she thought. *Hell.*  
  
Cliché as it was, playing with fire got you burned.  
  
Playing with shadows got you consumed by them. Snape had learned that a long time ago.  
  
He regretted it instantly, not that he was going to tell her that. The moment she'd somehow tipped the scales to semi-evil--too much pity in a day could do that to a man. And his vampire nature had been angling for something like this since she'd stumbled across him in that stupid bookstore, only he hadn't been meant to allow her to push him away.  
  
An image presented itself to him, the girl, all sweet blood and sweeter surrender, and he almost shuddered.   
  
No chance of that now, at least not willingly. And no hope of pulling those Obi Wan tricks out, either. She had to trust him, for the sake of all that he was still, for whatever reason, willing to protect. So play it cool and back off and pretend he was just trying to prove a point and let her get her nerve back and then...ugh...go save the world again.  
  
Maybe afterwards, his conscience would see fit to give him another break...  
  
Hells. Who was he fooling, anyway? It hadn't worked in the bookstore and it hadn't worked just now. She was too strong for him. Maybe that was why she was so appealing. His mind control had only held out as long as it had because he'd been giving her something she wanted, if a little darker and more twisted than Hermione had imagined.  
  
Not like she was going to make that mistake again.  
  
No, he told himself, she's gone. Find another brilliant, beautiful witch who doesn't despise you despite the fact that you've been both unutterably cruel to her in the past and turned into a vampire...  
  
("Do you know if you put a little hat on a snowball, it can last quite a long time in hell?")  
  
He laughed, inwardly, miserable and despairing. Fucking Hogwarts. Brought out the worst in him, always had.  
  
But time was of the essence, and Granger looked like she could use a little distraction. "Do you know exactly where Miss Weasley lives?" he asked.  
  
"Nooo..." she said slowly. "New York, I'm sure, but I don't know any better than that."  
  
"Oh. Good."  
  
"Good? How is the fact that we haven't got a specific location good?"  
  
"It isn't. But I've at least been to New York before. Apparating overseas is difficult enough without going somewhere one has never been before. And I don't have energy to waste right now."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"So we had best get going."  
  
"Yes."  
  
He held out a hand, to help her up, and she ignored it, climbing awkwardly to her feet as if aching, and only then, reluctantly, placed her fingers in his so that he could transport them both.  
  
The slight pull that had taken them to Scotland felt as if it was going to tear her stomach out zipping to America. Hermione knew that most wizards balked at such a far trip. She herself had never done it. Yet she had not questioned Snape's intentions.  
  
She was ashen when they landed--tumbled, really, and the minute they did, she'd jerked her hand violently out of his grip--in some back alley in Chinatown, and Snape was not looking well himself, although he could probably go no paler. He did not rise from his knees for a long time, and even then, it was to lean against the rough brick of one of the buildings they had landed between.  
  
She stood, too, and imitated him. "Are...are you alright?"  
  
"Fine, Miss Granger," he said shortly and parted reluctantly from the wall to straighten up. *I'd kill for a drink,* he thought with dark humor, and tried to remember where they were as he headed out of the alley.  
  
The old Chinese herbalist's he'd been so fond of was gone now, replaced by some trendy tea house. Hermione, citing the fact that she'd had about two meals in three days, popped into it for a minute and emerged with a couple of odd-looking sesame buns and a large plastic cup of cloudy liquid which appeared, on closer inspection, to be full of caviar.  
  
She drank some. "Oh," she said. "Eew."  
  
"What -is- that stuff?"  
  
"It's called 'bubble tea.' It sounded happy. It's absolutely vile." She made a face, kept drinking.  
  
"Well, Miss Granger," he drawled. "I've gotten us here. Take over. Where to now?"  
  
She threw the half-full cup of unappealing liquid into a trash can, and spun around. "Not sure exactly," she said. "But I'd wager uptown. Ginny's got some unplottable spells going, but she's not very good at them, and if we're in the right area, we should be able to locate her."  
  
"If the Big Bad hasn't gotten to her first," he added mock-cheerfully.  
  
"Yes, that." 


	12. Chapter XII

12  
  
People on the Subway instinctively gave Snape, and, subsequently, Hermione, a wide birth. It was a crowded train, and the result was almost as if some force field had been enacted around them, six feet in diameter. It meant a rather nice breathing space, but it also meant Hermione had to stay rather closer to his side than she might have preferred, lest she get swept away into the crowd.  
  
Snape was smoking. There were signs posted everywhere-little cartoon cigarette in a big red circle with a line through it, how stupid did they think people were?-and he obviously didn't care. Nobody was going to make a fuss. These people were probably giving themselves muscle strains just trying not to make eye contact. If he hadn't been so frightening just lately, it would have been fun.  
  
He was being oddly careful not to touch her, and she could sense regret, at least, if not apology, as they retreated into a touch of formality.  
  
"I don't know where she lives," she said, trying to fill silence. "But it should be expensive."  
  
"Follow your instinct," he muttered. "We'll manage."  
  
She sighed. "It would be helpful if I could remember her husband's last name." She paused. "Maybe she never told me."  
  
On some unspoken agreement, they exited the train, and then the train station. He waved an arm dramatically. "Pick a direction."  
  
She picked one. It was a huge city, all traffic and neon and grit, and she felt very, very lost. The dark, quiet man at her side was not being very helpful, and she was already developing blisters. It had been a long time since serious physical exertion had been part of her days.  
  
They walked. Occasionally, one of them would make some idle conversation. At one point, Hermione bought a pretzel.  
  
He was not looking well. His shoulders slouched and he looked weaker that he had before. Perhaps...  
  
No. She wasn't going to think about that. He would have to make do.  
  
Hermione tried to stop thinking about Snape. Instead, she thought about Ginny, although her worry at the girl's plight soon shifted to annoyance. What the fuck was the girl playing at, disappearing from family and friends, making sure they couldn't find her? Couldn't she have imagined something like this coming up?  
  
Hermione ground her teeth and continued walking, as the clothes got more expensive and the houses posher, until Snape stopped.  
  
"This feels right," he grumbled. "Perhaps we should try to track her."  
  
Hermione nodded assent, and he pulled out his wand, ducking between two houses, tracing a careful pattern in the air, which shimmered, ever so slightly. Hermione recognized it as a variation on a traditional tracking spell, meant to find someone who doesn't want to be found. The glow became a small, circular sigil about a foot in diameter but shrinking, looking like a very complicated compass rose. It shrank to about two inches across, and landed to hover a few centimeters about Snape's outstretched palm.  
  
He stared at his makeshift magic compass. "We're close," he said, somewhat pleased, and turned slowly in a circle until one point of the compass glowed more strongly than the other three. "That way."  
  
'That way' was simple in theory, but there were complications. Things like houses and fences tended to be in the way, and traveling in a single direction was impossible. As it was, it was nearly half an hour before Snape and Hermione were standing on the steps of a sleek, expensive-looking townhouse, the compass glowing very strongly indeed and pulsing softly.  
  
Snape closed his fist around the glow, extinguishing it and ending the spell.  
  
"Perhaps I should go first," Hermione offered. "On account of..."  
  
"Certainly," he snapped. "Lead the way."  
  
Frowning at him, Hermione took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.  
  
Nobody answered.  
  
She knocked again.   
  
Still, the door remained unquestionably closed.  
  
"Perhaps she's not home?"  
  
"The spell would not have led us here had she not been in. Perhaps she's seen us."  
  
The 'us' made Hermione want to snicker. After all, who would be entirely pleased with their old Potions teacher showing up on their doorstep? But she knocked again, louder.  
  
"Alright, alright, I'm coming," said a bright, female voice, and the door opened to reveal Ginny Weasley.  
  
Ginny Weasley, although not quite as Hermione remembered her, with expensive strawberry-blonde highlights in her copper hair, Prada sandals and a dress that had probably been about three hundred dollars too expensive for seventeen cents worth of skimpy floral chiffon.  
  
"Hermione Granger!" she exclaimed, in a voice of delight that sounded entirely too practiced. "It's lovely to see you, really it is, but I have a date for lunch and I'm running late...really, what are you doing here, and..." She trailed off. Ginny had caught sight of Snape.  
  
She went white, underneath her tasteful bronzer and stylish freckles.  
  
"Ginny, can we come in? You're in danger," Hermione said gently.  
  
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, but I really do have to run. I've been promising Marco I'd have lunch with him for -ages- and he really would be -so- disappointed. I will certainly have to meet up with you later though, perhaps breakfast tomorrow...no, I'm sure I'm supposed to see Lyla. Maybe dinner...no, there's a gallery opening. But you really should stop by sometime...isn't he supposed to be dead?"  
  
"He is," Hermione said, exchanging a surreptitious glance with Snape.   
  
"Oh," said Ginny, momentarily taken about, but she found her bearing quickly enough. "You will -have- to tell me all about it. But I'm late you see, and the poor boy will think I don't like him, and really he is just so adorable..."  
  
"Ginny, what happened to your husband?"  
  
Ginny laughed, brightly, an extremely irritating sound. "Oh, Andriano? I didn't tell you? It really didn't last. Oh, he was sweet, really he was-"  
  
Snape, to Hermione's everlasting gratitude, cut her off. "Perhaps later, Miss Weasley." He managed to make eye contact. "May we come in?" The words rearranged themselves into: We May Come In.  
  
"Of course, of course. Marco can wait," she said numbly. "It's still Mrs. Delaney, though. It was too nice a name to pass up. Weasley was just so..." she searched for a word.  
  
"Passé?" Hermione offered sarcastically.  
  
"Oh, yes, that's it exactly," Ginny said. "I'm sorry I haven't written often, Hermione dear, but I just seem to be so busy here. This country is delightful, you know. Give them an accent and they just -fawn- over you." She smiled. "Not that I mind."  
  
"Weasley, we think the Death Eaters are going to attack you," Snape said bluntly.  
  
It snapped Ginny out of her brainlessness, although just a little. Her hands rose to her mouth. "Oh, no. That can't be! That's all been over for years!"  
  
"Obviously, it has not."  
  
"No," she said firmly. "I don't believe you. Hermione, why did you bring him here? Why is he telling me this? I just want all that mess to stay back in England, where it belongs. Why are you here? Why isn't Snape dead?"  
  
"I'm here because I'm trying to help you," Hermione said sharply, annoyed, despite herself, of how callous Ginny was being to her companion. "And Snape -is- dead. He's a vampire."  
  
Ginny looked, slowly, at Vampire-Snape, as if for the first time. And she fainted.  
  
"If she'd stayed in England," Snape said dourly. "where she obviously left her brain, this would have been a lot easier."  
  
Hermione nodded. 


End file.
